


Gotta Make You Understand

by shipsdrifting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Reunions, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipsdrifting/pseuds/shipsdrifting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Hey!” Niall exclaims, nudging Harry in the side. “Hey, isn't that - Wait. Why are you so red?” His eyes narrow for a moment, and then he hits Harry on the shoulder again, harder. “No fucking way,” he breathes, his face growing impossibly wide with glee. “Are you actually fucking telling me you've been coming – no, </em>sneaking<em> - around here every week in secret because you still have a mad crush on </em>Louis Tomlinson<em>?”</em><br/> </p><p>Or, Uni AU in which Gemma, Liam and Louis are One Direction, and Harry is the World's Most Supportive Brother - really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotta Make You Understand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likethemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethemoon/gifts).



> I combined your first two prompts: Gemma is in One Direction with Louis, so they meet when Harry goes to one of his sister’s shows; and Harry and Louis knew each other as kids and meet again in the future. So I kind of twisted them together, but I hope you like it!
> 
> Many many thanks to my awesome last-minute betas :)

It's nearly 6 PM, and Niall is blockading Harry’s exit from their dorm room, arms stretched from wall to wall like it's the most normal position in the world.

“Niall, what are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?”

“I told you,” Harry explains patiently, for the second time today. “The same thing I do every Tuesday night: I'm going to the U-Bar to see Gemma’s band perform.” Harry is a _very_ supportive brother. The world’s most supportive brother, even. “Can you get out of the way?”

But for the second time today, Niall doesn’t respond except for a cryptic eyebrow raise.

“Yeah. Thing is, I ran into Gemma this morning, and she mentioned that she's still waiting for us to come see them. So I said, ‘sorry, but hasn't Harry gone to see you every week?’ And _she_ was like, ‘no, he always says he's too busy.’”

Okay, but Harry is still a supportive brother - only, maybe he's secretly supportive.

He swallows and relaxes his posture as convincingly as he can, smoothing his black beanie over his head. “Oh. That’s weird. She must’ve not seen me, I guess. I always have to leave kinda quickly.” Niall blinks. “I’m not lying! I –”

“I know you’re not lying,” Niall interrupts. “Because you’re shit at lying, and I’ve known you far too long not to know that.”

“Good, then.”

Niall squints at him. “But something still isn’t quite right.”

Harry sighs. He really has to go now if he wants to arrive in the short window after all the acts have gone backstage to get ready but before they actually begin.

Niall, however, seems to have no intention of letting him go.

“Now,” he continues, crossing his left leg in front of him faux-casually. “I asked around, of course. Asked Zayn – he works the bar there sometimes; he's the one with the, y’know - ” he gestures to his face and purses his lips in a poor impression of a smoldering look. “Anyway, it seems he’s seen you, so I know for sure you’re really there.”

Curse that unassuming bartender. Curse Niall's encyclopedic knowledge of everything and everyone on this campus.

“So the question is,” he cocks his head, a menacing little smirk tugging at the sides of his face, “why haven't you said hello to your sister? And don’t give me any of that ‘she just hasn’t seen me’ rubbish. It's been, what, three weeks?”

Four. Not that Harry's counting.

He didn’t mean for it to happen this way, okay? Gemma had merely told him that she’d gotten a band together in one of her classes, and with enough practice and a few connections, they’d managed to get a spot in the U-Bar’s music night for the next couple months. It’s not like Harry had expected to walk in and immediately see _him_ , head thrown back with laughter as they’d shuffled backstage. He didn’t even know that he _went_ to this university. He also didn’t mean to sit in a table so far back that Gemma’s view would be completely occluded and he could watch Louis in secret; there just weren’t many tables left, okay? It’s not his _fault_ that it made for the perfect plan to keep coming back week after week, just to see –  

“So,” Niall raps his knuckles against the wall, bringing Harry back to the present. “I was thinking that maybe I should accompany you today. See what all the fuss is about, see if the band is any good, you know?”

“Are you sure?” Harry tries feebly. “You don't have to – she probably just hasn't seen me, is all. I’m sure you probably have better things to do.”

“Nope,” Niall says in a bright voice as he lowers his arms to his sides. “I’m ready to go when you are.”

Harry sighs.

They walk side by side in silence across campus. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and resigns himself to _not_ thinking about his near future. Instead, he focuses on the dusky gray-blue of the sky, the orange rings of light shining from the streetlamps and illuminating what remains of the last snow in a light pink-purple glow. It’s all very surreal and very appropriate for his current state of existence, he thinks.

They trod across the West lawn and enter the unassuming white building attached to the side of the student union. The first act is just finishing setting up, setting their stools and microphones into position. Harry debates briefly if he should attempt to steer Niall to his normal table in the far back corner, by the bar. but Niall chooses for them, plopping himself in the closest remaining spot in the front, only a few tables back from the stage.

Harry has seen the first act before: Jade and Jesy, two girls with guitars who always harmonize to sound really lovely together. They play their usual eclectic pop mix; today it’s Taylor Swift, the Strokes, and something slow he doesn’t recognize. Harry spirals back into his mind, hardly noticing when the act ends and Niall goes to get them each a beer.

He’s familiar with several of the acts already from his four weeks of coming here; most are quite good, and he tries to relax and enjoy them. He even gets to see Niall’s reaction to the four-man ukulele band, Ukulelade, who seem atrociously hipster but always blow everyone’s expectations away with their serious and heartfelt love song covers.

But with each act, Harry’s palms get clammier and his head gets fuzzier. By the time the fourth and penultimate act finishes, he’s broken out into a sweat, clapping his hands together hard to suppress the feeling of dread that has buried itself deep in his stomach as he waits for the inevitable.

Gemma comes out first, guitar slung over her shoulder. Niall obnoxiously whoops and raises his hand in the air, so she immediately spots them, grin splitting out on her face as she waves back. Following close behind her are Liam, the lead singer and backup guitarist, and then _Louis_. He looks as good as ever in his lush red sweater, cradling his keyboard in one arm while propping up the stand with the other.

Louis probably won’t even notice him, Harry reasons, especially as he’s setting up everything just right; and anyway, he certainly won't recognize him from five years ago. He probably doesn’t even remember him.

But to make matters worse, Gemma purposefully strides over and taps him in the shoulder to whisper something and point at Harry and Niall. Harry looks away just as Louis’ blue eyes snap up to him; he pretends to fiddle with his beer, face burning up.

“Hey!” Niall exclaims suddenly, nudging him in the side. “Hey, isn't that – Wait. Why are you so red?” His eyes narrow for a moment, and then he hits Harry on the shoulder again, harder, barking out a laugh. “No fucking way,” he breathes, his face growing impossibly wide with glee. “Are you actually fucking telling me you've been coming – no, _sneaking_ around here every week in secret because you still have a mad crush on _Louis Tomlinson_?”

Harry mumbles something in response, unintelligible even to himself.

“What?” Niall wriggles forward in his chair with excitement.

“I said, I'm not telling you anything.”

Niall is clearly unconvinced. He starts bouncing his palms on the table giddily. “No, but this is perfect! You can finally talk to him -”

“No,” Harry hisses as the crowd starts to settle. Niall continues yammering on for a few moments until, thankfully, Gemma begins introducing the band at the microphone.

“Hi there, I'm Gemma, and this is Louis and Liam, and we're One Direction.”

Harry avoids looking at Louis’ face during their boppy cover of “Mr. Brightside,” their stripped down acoustic “Viva la Vida,” or any of their other songs. Which is a shame, really, because usually the main reason he comes here is to look at Louis’ face. Well, that and to hear his buttery-smooth voice crooning alongside Gemma’s and Liam’s and in the occasional awe-inspiring solo. And to watch his delicate little fingers skimming over the keyboard, knees bopping along with the beat. And – right. To support Gemma.

It's not creepy, okay? It's just that Louis is _hot._ As hot as he was five years ago when he and Gemma became proper best friends in sixth form, and probably even hotter.

Back then, Niall had declared Harry “obsessed.” Harry only partially disagrees with that assessment. He never even really spent time with Louis, and he was still utterly and hopelessly infatuated. He would see Louis with his sister all the time, of course: when he would peek out his window to watch her get into Louis’ car for school in the mornings; or when Harry would come home from school and they’d wave to him from where they were playing football in the yard or sitting on the porch; or when Louis would stay for dinner and Harry would have to use every ounce of his self-control to keep himself from choking on his food (he’d fail half the time anyway).  

One time, when he knew they had to stay late for drama practice, he got into his head that he and Niall should be outside playing football when they got back, so maybe Louis would join in. “Why don’t you just _talk_ to him,” Niall had suggested. As if he could just _do_ that. “Dunno if your football skills are your best selling point.”

Of course, Niall was right: he’d ended up literally falling on his face the very first time Louis kicked the ball back from the distance. It wasn’t his fault that there were rocks in the yard, but that didn’t stop Niall from doubling over in laughter while Louis hurried to help him up, Harry’s face burning with a combination of intense embarrassment and the excitement that Louis was _touching_ him. Niall had teased him for weeks, but it was probably worth it to see Louis’ face up close for those brief seconds.

Louis looks somehow the same but so different now, from the loud, spiky-haired sixteen-year-old or the hyperactive, wind-swept eighteen-year-old that Harry has remembered fondly for so many years. His posture holds more confidence now, and so does his voice – Harry remembers many evenings of pressing his ear to the wall as he and Gemma sang in her room, remembers the Youtube video of his song in _Grease_ that he’d watched over and over again until he’d decided he was raising the view count too suspiciously high.

Louis still has little tan ankles poking up from his Vans, and his eyes still hold that cocky, mischievous glint, but somehow everything about him is more mature, amplified. It’s like, his eyes are bluer and his eyelashes are longer and his cheekbones are sharper and - even Harry's _thoughts_ are rendered speechless.

Harry is mesmerized as he watches Gemma’s deft fingers strumming the guitar strings, Louis' sweet voice in the harmony swaying in the backdrop of his mind. Ever since the second week, One Direction has been the last act of the night – because they're the best, he thinks proudly – and tonight they play four songs and an encore before they say goodbye to the heartily cheering crowd.

And before Harry can do anything at all, Niall is taking hold of his arm and dragging him up towards the stage.

“Great set!” Niall enthuses to the trio.

“So glad you could make it!” Gemma says, her face flushed with joy as she hops down from the stage to envelope Harry, then Niall, in a hug. “I knew you'd finally come!”

Niall juts his thumb toward Harry. “Finally tore this one out of the dorm,” he says, eyes betraying his near-infinite amusement.

Harry takes a breath and focuses on the way the light shines off Gemma's purple hair. _I will not look at Louis._ “Yeah, you were really fantastic, Gem,” he says sincerely. “I’m glad I came.”

“Hey, you guys were really great,” Niall says, moving to the side to address the other band members. He pinches Harry’s arm. Hard. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles with a forced smile, and focuses on the lower seam of Louis’ shirt. Should be safe. It backfires when Louis leans down to fold up the keyboard stand and his shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of perfect, tan skin. Harry can practically hear Niall’s smirk.  

But then, Louis turns to _smile_ at them, and Harry feels the world align. “Thank you! Good to see you again,” he says, then stops and bites his lower lip. “I mean, I don’t know if you remember me. Harry,” he looks right at him, and Harry holds himself together enough to nod in response, though it probably looks more like he’s in pain. Louis _remembers_ him. “And Niall, right?”

“Oh, right,” Gemma slides in next to them. “This is Liam and Louis. You remember Louis, back from school, right? He just transferred here this year. And Liam’s an old friend from the music program here. Liam, this is my brother Harry and his friend Niall.”

“Thanks for coming,” Liam says with a sincere smile. “You second-years?”

“Yep,” Harry manages to squeak out, and Gemma ruffles his hair before sliding her guitar back into its case.

“Hey, that reminds me, now that I've got you here – you should come to our party this weekend! If you're not busy, of course.” She nudges Harry in the side. “You haven’t come to a party with me all year.”

“Party?” Niall perks up. He claps Harry on the shoulder with a grin. “Nope, we’re not busy. Just tell us when and where.”  Harry shoots him a look, but he pointedly ignores it. “Is it at your flat?”

"No, it's at Louis and his flatmate's - Zayn, he's one of the bartenders, over there, the one with the, y'know." She squints her eyes and slashes two fingers along the sides of her jaw. Niall nods. "Anyway, it's at their place, and it’s gonna be a wicked time. I’ll text you?”

“Text me, too!” Niall pipes up.

Harry groans. This can't possibly end well.

***

Harry spends the days leading up to Saturday night in a haze, torn between the prospects of going to the party and finding an excuse to skip it. On one hand, he would get to spend time with Louis, who had _smiled_ at him, who hadn’t ignored him, who had, apparently, even _remembered_ him. But on the other hand, he might want to quit while he’s ahead; he seriously doubts his ability to contain himself around Louis, and he’d probably make a dumb comment, or trip and fall in front of him, or profess his undying love. Or something.

Basically, it could get weird.

“You're going,” Niall says flatly when he brings up the tentative idea of staying in to study. And that’s that.

Strictly speaking, he spends more time than he should getting ready, styling his hair for nearly an hour and pulling out half of his closet to figure out what to wear. Luckily, Niall indulges him, providing aid without judgement. In the end, they decide on an almost sheer black v-neck and his skinniest black jeans, his artfully styled curls wrapped in the green patterned scarf that he knows – and Niall confirms – brings out his eyes.

Niall nods approvingly. “Louis'll love it.” He waggles his eyebrows. So much for aid without judgement.

They arrive at the party fashionably late, Niall with a handle of vodka in hand. He can hear dull music thrumming from inside as they approach the door, and then, like magic, Zayn opens it and the sounds pour out. Zayn gives a small smirk as he greets them and invites them to follow inside.

The first thing Harry notices is everyone is wearing white shirts, some with scribbled doodles on them.

“Baby brother!” Gemma suddenly appears and hugs him. “Glad you came!” Then she steps back to look at him. “Oh, shit, sorry – I forgot to tell you it was a graffiti party.”

“What?”

“A graffiti party. Zayn thought of it. Like, everyone wears white shirts, and we have paper on all the walls too, so anyone can write or draw or anything. C'mere, we’ll find you something to wear." She motions at Niall's white shirt. "You okay getting that drawn on?” 

“Sure," Niall shrugs, eyes already drifting to the assortment of drinks on the kitchen counter.

“Okay,” Gemma turns to survey the crowd behind her, and moments later she pulls someone back by the shoulders. “You have any white shirts Harry can borrow?”

“Sure,” the guy says, and Harry hardly has time to process the voice before the guy turns around, and it’s Louis, wide grin plastered on his face. He seems more manic than on Tuesday, for sure, eyes wide and voice jumpy. “Hey, Harry! Guess Gems didn’t tell you what to wear?”

Harry can feel the eyes raking up and down his body, and he’s not sure whether it’s a look of judgement or appreciation. Probably the former.

“No,” Gemma answers for him. “Guess I forgot. You have any extra white shirts?”

Louis snaps back to attention. “Sure – yeah, c’mon, my room,” he motions, and Harry follows dumbly.

Louis’ bedroom is a mess, clothes and books and pieces of paper strewn over everything, and Harry waits in the doorway while he rummages through his chest of drawers.

“Aha,” he says, after a moment and pulls out a shirt with some kind of football logo on the back. “This should fit you.”

“Thanks.” Harry wonders, briefly, if he should go change shirts in the loo or something. No, he thinks; that would probably be weird. And anyway, Louis has turned his back to fiddle with something on the bed, so Harry swiftly switches shirts, and he’s tugging the new one down on his body by the time Louis turns back around. It’s a little short, but it fits fine. Also, it smells like Louis, and he realizes he’ll probably get to keep it after tonight, so he definitely counts that as a win. _Not creepy._

He holds out the shirt he’d been wearing. “Can I put this somewhere?”

“Sure, just leave it here,” Louis tosses it onto the bed on top of another pile of clothes. “Just don’t forget it. Now, here” - he hands Harry a blue Sharpie marker - “is your weapon.”

“What?”

“My mission for the night is to draw dicks on every person and every thing that I can. Especially those who don’t expect it, and _especially_ all of Zayn’s artwork. Would you, young Harold Styles, like to join in my quest?”

Harry snorts out a laugh, because he really wasn’t expecting that, and a glint passes through Louis’ eyes. Harry regains his composure. “It would be an honor,” he says with a solemn nod.

“Excellent,” Louis beams. “Let’s go, then.” They creep down the corridor together to survey the party. “Now who should be our next victim,” Louis strokes his chin. “Niall?”

Niall is emerging from the kitchen with Liam, a glass of something dark in each of their hands. “Think you can distract him?” Louis whispers.

“Hey, Niall,” Harry approaches him. “Look, I got a shirt.” He twirls around as Louis sneaks behind and crouches down, marker poised in his hand. “Now you can draw something on me, if you want,” Harry continues, holding out his marker. “It’s a pretty cool idea, right?”

“Yeah – Hey!” Niall spins around too late; Louis is already standing up. “Hey, what’d you draw on me?”

“Nothing.” Louis’ eyes widen in faux-innocence, but they easily betray his smug air of accomplishment. Niall grabs the bottom of his tanktop and pulls it around to see the crude dick that Louis has drawn above the seam. Niall rolls his eyes, but Louis and Harry are both cracking up, Louis extending his hand for a high-five.

“You guys are terrible,” Niall shakes his head, and Harry doesn’t even care about the pointed look that he throws him.

Harry ends up plastered against Louis' side for the duration of the night, and strangely it's _fine._ Well, the shots of Niall’s vodka probably help, but miraculously, he doesn’t actually even need to get that drunk. Somehow it just feels normal. He tries not to overthink it.

Louis steers him around the party, hand resting on his shoulder or lightly touching his waist. They mill around the room, Louis introducing Harry to everyone with exuberance. Everyone seems to love Louis, even as he covers the room and all of its occupants with penis drawings, conspicuous and inconspicuous, large and small, blue and green and red and black. Louis grows a little louder and a little more tipsy and a little more touchy as the night progresses, sometimes just resting his arms on Harry’s shoulders to whisper into his ear and plot their next heist. Harry revels in it.

After they prank Zayn for the third and best time – Harry innocently inquiring about the whereabouts of the loo while Louis places a giant dick in the middle of the intricate, colorful mandala design he’s been working on for the past fifteen minutes on the wall – they settle in a surge of cackles on the sofa, pressed against each other doubled over in laughter.

Gemma and another girl – Perrie, Harry thinks hazily – sit across from them working on some kind of careful artwork on Niall’s back as he leans over on the floor at their feet.

Perrie suddenly starts shaking the marker in annoyance. “Gem, I think this one’s running out, too. D'you have another one?”

“I dunno. Hey, Louis?”

“Yeah?” he sweeps in, pupils wide.

“Do we have any more green Sharpies? I think I left the pack in your room.” Harry thinks maybe her eyes catch his for a second too long, but it could be his slightly tipsy imagination.

“Come with me?” Louis asks, but answers his own question by grabbing Harry’s arm and pulling him up to follow down the hallway.

From the back, Harry finally sees all the doodles strewn across Louis’ shirt: a stick-man, a cup of tea, _It is what it is_ written in pretty script.

“Is it bad?” Louis asks when he notices him looking. He cranes back in a vain attempt to see. “Think Zayn wrote something all profound,” he rolls his eyes.

“‘ _It is what it is_ ’” Harry says. “That’s what he wrote, I mean.”

Louis cocks his head. “Huh. I actually kinda like that.”

“How am I?” Harry asks, turning so Louis can see his back. The back of the shirt has a logo, so most of the drawing, he thinks, has been done on his front: a few stick figures and “hi’s” and colorful flowers; one large, well-drawn butterfly in the center.

“No, not much on your back,” Louis shakes his head.

“You haven’t done me, then?” he inquires. Louis doesn’t answer, seemingly at a loss of words for a moment. “No dicks, I mean?” Louis raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you haven’t drawn any dicks on me,” Harry clarifies, and Louis’ eyes finally light up.  

“Harold Styles,” he turns, uncapping his blue sharpie. “Are you requesting that I adorn your back with one of my world-famous dick drawings?”

Harry shivers at the tickly caress of the marker as Louis presses it to his back. He feels him draw something before moving to draw something else, and then a couple more. They don’t all _feel_ like dicks, he thinks, suppressing a giggle at the wording of that thought.

“Hold still!” Louis reprimands as he finishes with a few more little lines.

“What’d you draw?” he asks. “Felt like more than one thing.” But Louis shrugs without offering an answer. “I wanna see,” he whines. He finally moves to arch backwards in the mirror on the wall, but Louis gleefully hops in the way, obstructing his view. “Fine,” Harry huffs, and he pulls the shirt right up over his head.

There is a fairly large blue dick, he finds, veins and all, along with a few more designs: a star, a little parachute-man flying down the back of his sleeve.  “Louis, did you really draw a _hanger_ on my shirt? Is it because – oh, just because there was one right in front of you,” he laughs, realizing that Louis had been facing the closet.

But Louis still doesn't answer as Harry looks up at him; he just kind of stares back. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d describe his look as _gaping_ , his eyes flitting, it seems, between Harry’s face and chest.

Louis gulps. “Sorry, I - sorry.”  He shrugs almost guiltily and looks back up into Harry’s eyes. “You’ve got – you look good,” he gets out.

Harry abandons his mental filter. “ _You_ look good,” he grins, stepping toward him.

Louis doesn’t move away, instead reaches toward him. “You’ve got some marker on your face, I think,” he says, slowly raising his hand to brush his thumb over Harry’s chin.

“Yeah?” Harry leans into the touch, watches Louis’ blue, long-lashed eyes flit between his eyes and his mouth and his chest and back up again. Harry’s heart is pounding and he realizes, through his sluggish brain, that this is real life, that Louis is actually touching him, _looking_ at him in a way that suggests he’d like to do more - and, god, Harry really, really wants him too.

“Yeah.” Louis doesn’t remove his hand, instead just moves a tiny bit closer, and that's all it takes and Harry decides he's going to do it. He takes a breath and leans forward slowly, closes his eyes and -

And then the tips of Louis’ fingers are pressing against his ribcage. And it’s not in a gentle, I’m-going-to-kiss-you way, but in a firm, sharp way, decidedly tuned to keeping him from moving any further.

Harry’s eyes shoot open and he moves back, reeling with the sudden realization. Louis remains motionless, face still directly in front of him with eyes wide and blue and wrought with confusion and apology.

“Harry -”

“No.” He backs up two steps, nearly trips over the end of the door. “I’m sorry.” He swallows down the bile rising in his throat and throws his arms back through the t-shirt, pulling it back over his head in one smooth motion.

“Harry, no. Wait. You don’t have to –”

“No, I actually have to go. Have to get home,” he says with a determined nod of his head. “I have stuff to do.”

“Harry, c'mon, wait.” Louis’ voice is almost pleading, broken in a way that makes Harry feel way too much.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and he resolutely does not look back as he steps out of the room, strides back across the party and out the front door.

***

Harry almost doesn't go to the U-Bar next Tuesday. Almost.

In a pathetic reversal of roles, Niall, upon hearing how Harry’s night had ended, had warned him to stay away. But Niall also has an exam review tonight, leaving Harry to make the decision alone, and the sad truth is that he’s just too weak.

He’s spent the last several days trying and failing to block that mortifying moment out of his head, making vain attempts at writing the essay he has due next week but mostly just moping while blasting sad music into his ears and avoiding Gemma’s phone calls. He accepts Niall’s hugs and eats from the large amounts of food he has delivered for them, but nothing really helps.

Despite everything, he just has a perverse, magnetic _need_ to see Louis one last time. And, he reasons, it’s not like the band will notice him; after all, they’d never noticed him before, not with the stage lights in their eyes and Harry’s spot tucked in the corner, and they especially won't notice now that they'd expect to see him in the front.

By 6:15 he's sat at his table with a beer, his black beanie tugged down over his ears and Zayn eying him with what can only be pity. He’d forgotten about Zayn. Oh, well. He doesn’t seem like the type to humiliate people, though, and even if he told Louis, it would only serve as an addition to his already nearly-infinite list of embarrassing, pathetic mistakes.

So he waits and tries to enjoy all of the acts, at least. Jade and Jesy sound as good as ever, and there’s a new guy who comes on with a piano to do slowed-down acoustic renditions of old rock songs that sound surprisingly good, even if “Friday I’m in Love” isn't really what Harry needs to hear right now.

After the fourth act, Harry is holding his breath. But no one comes out from the back of the stage. Instead, the host - Nick something, a tall guy with a quiff - pops up from the front. “Today,” he announces, “We're not having our usual final act, One Direction.” A ripple of discontent passes through the crowd, and Harry tries and fails to suppress the irrational surge of pride that passes through him, even as his own heart drops with the news. “Instead, we have a special treat for you - here's Ukulelade!”

Harry slumps in his chair, but it’s partially in relief. Well, he thinks, maybe this is for the best; maybe fate found a way to make everything work out after all. He probably shouldn’t have even come, shouldn’t see Louis now, when everything still feels so raw.

As great as Ukulelade is, he’s not in the mood for their artfully sappy love songs; he really wants to go home and watch a sad movie or something, and it’s not like they’ll notice if he leaves now, while they’re setting up. He’s about to stand up, when he senses footsteps approaching from behind him.

“Hi.” The voice is unassuming, and its speaker slides into the other chair, and then Harry is sitting across from _Louis._

For a moment, Harry can’t process this turn of events; he doesn’t speak, can hardly even breathe. He just stares.  

“These guys are so good - this is hilarious,” Louis tries again with a small grin, flicking his eyes to the stage. Harry hadn’t noticed, but they’ve just started a slow, soulful rendition of “Never Gonna Give You Up.”

“Yeah,” Harry gulps, finding his voice. He exhales slowly and tries to keep it even. “I think I like the usual act better, though.”

Louis preens a little, a pink flush rising on his cheekbones, and Harry has to suppress a grin because he's so _cute_. But – right. That's precisely why he's _not_ grinning. What is wrong with him?

“Dunno why they're not on today,” Harry continues, swiping at the fog on his beer.

“Heard it's because the keyboardist is an idiot and had to fix something he fucked up,” Louis says without missing a beat. His eyes rest on Harry's for a moment, but Harry steadfastly refuses to look back at him. He doesn't need Louis' pity. He doesn't even deserve it, to be honest. The whole thing is stupid. Except -

“How'd you know I would be here?”

“You're here every week,” Louis shrugs, and – wow. _That_ just adds a whole new layer to his mortification.

“What, did Zayn tell you?” Harry squeezes his eyes shut and wonders if the universe will oblige his wishes, just this once, and open up the floor to swallow him into an abyss forever. It doesn’t.

“What? No, he didn’t even know who you were, until I told him after the first week –” Louis ducks his head guiltily, and now Harry just feels confused. He really wishes he knew what was going on. “I didn't, like – I just happened to notice, is all. I wasn’t being creepy about it.” His speech comes in rapid spurts. “I mean, I just didn't say anything to Gemma or anything, because I thought – I dunno. Maybe you didn’t want her to know? And, maybe you'd keep coming.” He sounds a bit embarrassed, and Harry is still thoroughly confused. Louis shrugs and looks up almost shyly, eyes shining through his long lashes. “I liked it, I guess.”

“But. How did you even know – er, remember who I was?”

“Harry,” Louis’ voice grows soft, “Of course I remember you.” A smile flickers across his lips. “How could I forget you? You've always looked  - memorable. And cute,” he adds after a moment.

Harry doesn’t know what to offer in exchange for this information except the truth. “You know, I was coming here to see you. I mean, also to support Gemma, but like.” He swallows. “That’s why I’m wearing this beanie. It’s kinda a bad disguise.” He starts pulling it from his head.

Louis’ eyes widen, and then he breaks into this adorably incredulous smile. “Wait - really? You remember me, too?”

Harry nods as he tugs the beanie off his head. He realizes too late that it has released a tumble of curls in front of his eyes; he swipes them backwards so he can see again, and the way Louis is looking back at him, breathless and rapt, suddenly makes him think that maybe he’s not just saying all of this to make Harry feel better, that maybe it’s actually _true_.   

“I always had a bit of a crush on you, as a kid,” Harry says, propelled by this new surge of courage. “Niall used to give me so much shit for it. You probably knew, even – I was pretty obvious.”

“No,” Louis says, “I didn’t know. Or – even if I ever thought so, I’d probably just dismiss it as wishful thinking on my part. I really liked you.”

“Why didn't you ever say anything?”

“You were so – Jesus, Harry,” Louis exhales. “You were – you were Gemma's _little brother,_ and I still fancied you. I still wanted – but I _couldn't._ Because you were so little, and cute, and fucking cherubic with the curls and the dimples and the Bambi legs.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.

“And now?”

“And now – fuck. You're still cute,” He smiles. “But you're also _hot_. I didn’t – it’s not that I didn’t expect it. But, still. You’re so tall _._ And your _voice_ , god. And -” He suddenly reaches out a tentative hand, and when Harry doesn’t move, he lightly touches the ends of his hair. “And your hair.” He smiles fondly. “Still curly. And, you know, your -” He waves his open hand to gesture at Harry’s torso.

“But then,” Harry frowns. “Why did you – Friday?”

Louis exhales, deflated. “Because I’m an idiot. And ‘cause you were a bit drunk, I guess. And I was scared. Thought Gemma might have my balls if I took advantage of you like that. You know,” a wry smile appears on his face. “She always used to warn me to stay away from you – I mean, she was always kinda joking, just because we’re both gay, y'know, and she always had that protective-big-sister thing, but I think maybe she knew there was something to it, too.” He grimaces. “Turns out, she had my balls after you left, for letting you go like that.” He snorts. “Guess that’s being a good sister, and all that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, vaguely proud and somewhat embarrassed at her sticking up for him like that.

“I told her I'd make it right, though.” Louis leans forward, almost imperceptibly, over the tiny table.

 _Make it right_. Harry's heart feels like it might beat right out of his chest. Louis' eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth and back again in a silent question.

And then Harry can’t take it any longer. He moves forward to close the space between them as Louis does the same, capturing him in a kiss over the table, sweet and dizzying and everything he's wanted for days and weeks and, really, _years_. Louis’ lips are a little cold but so soft, and he moves to grip Harry’s shoulders as Harry slides his hand to the the back of his neck, warm and pliant. And for that moment, everything is perfect, from the slide against his lips, to the solid warmth under his hand, to the heartfelt “ _never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down...”_ drifting back from the stage.  

“Hey,” a voice pops their bubble. They part and startle backwards, still breathless, to find Zayn standing over them with raised eyebrows and an endlessly amused smirk. “No PDA allowed in here, you know,” he says, rapping his knuckles once against the table.

“You’re just jealous,” Louis retorts. Nevertheless, he’s flushed beet red, and Harry takes that as a compliment.

“No, it’s just not allowed. _I_ think it’s cute,” Zayn shrugs with a toothy grin before poking Louis in the shoulder. “Took you long enough, though,” he whispers, just loud enough for them to hear.

“Fuck you, you date-ruiner,” Louis laughs, and he defiantly moves to curl his hand around the back of Harry’s head to pull him into another wet kiss. Harry happily obliges.

“Let’s get out of here,” Louis whispers, giggling in Harry’s ear. Harry shivers and takes his hand and they run out like that, Zayn shaking his head admonishingly from his resumed post behind the bar.

“I have to say,” Harry says outside when he finds his breath, pulling his beanie back onto his head, “that was something of an awful first date. You don’t arrive until the last act, and then you basically rickroll me - ”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Louis promises, taking both of his hands with a strange intensity. “I’ll take you out for real. Okay?”

“I was kidding,” Harry says with a laugh. “And anyway, I like that song.”

“Of course you do,” Louis shakes his head fondly. “But I really do want to get to know you. Without the meddling of alcohol, or internet memes, or my traitorous friends. Or Gemma.”

“Or Niall,” Harry supplies. “He’s the _king_ of meddling. Though, I guess his meddling is what brought us together,” he adds, ducking his head. “He’s, uh, the one who forced me to come and say hi to you after the show last week. And to go to your party.”

Harry half-expects Louis to laugh at him, but instead he just smiles, soft and shining. “Well, I’m glad he did,” he says, gently squeezing Harry’s hands. Harry realizes that he can  _do_  this now, so he raises their entwined hands around Louis’ neck and presses their bodies and lips together once more.  

“Me too,” Harry replies, between breathless kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for essentially rickrolling you. I didn't mean to, I swear; this song just ended up fitting really well and it got a little carried away. For the record, I also really think it's a good song. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day, and thanks for reading! Comments/criticism welcome :)


End file.
